A Tunable Lark
by Poshtille
Summary: Air pirates. Two countries at war. A group of soldiers falling into warfare trying to protect the ones they love and a princess on the verge of an execution. And undercurrents—always undercurrents—of a man who has discovered the ultimate weapon of conquest, and is slowly taking over the world... [Military/Fantasy/AU]


**Chapter One: The Hob**

* * *

 _A young man is on horseback, and the hills' many eyes see him clearly. Dawn smears the horizon. The sky is made of oil, the sun a lantern that smokes before it catches alight. We see them. We see them all, from beneath the hills. Flames embezzle the clouds and their silver witches, who glint their iron shoes before daylight renders them blind. It is no task. Our servants do not disappoint. The eyes we possess: several. Some human—but not all. Some dragon—but not all. Some living—_

 _but not all._

 _The young man is on horseback. Another approaches in the distance. Black hair. Hearts that pump blood through their bodies. We can taste it, taste the scent of gushing life on our lips. We can taste it._

 _So close._

 _Both men are blind._

* * *

James Potter had a seeker's eyes. The hazel was family heraldry, although, he was affable enough to admit, he was the first person in his family who actually possessed this keen gift of farsight. It was the sort of heraldry, you see—he was likely to then go on to explain—which had to _begin_ somewhere, and had apparently decided to begin with him. A cross between tawny and gold—somewhere brown, like the villages atop Alkotsp, where the houses were coated in mud and tar, and somewhere a dazzling speck of pale yellow, like the sun on a day that is clouded with mirth and unclouded otherwise. Certainly, James Potter was proud of his gift, proud that he had made it so far in life by utilising it effectively—proud, because that is what James Potter did best.

Indeed, despite the fact that he was given to wearing a pair of spectacles (and was practically blind without them, to tell the truth), it is rare to find the gift of farsight coupled with a keen sense of observation, and James Potter—he was always likely to puff like a nobleman's pot-belly at the mere fact—was a possessor of both. The king had even deigned to call him 'intelligent' once ... although, admittedly, that had been under duress. And the king had received several blows to the head before making said statement, so perhaps the veracity of the compliment was a little doubtful, but...

Nevertheless, it was flattering to be called intelligent, and James Potter was of the opinion that flattery deserved to be paid justice to. It would be unfair of him to fail to live up to his name, after all, wouldn't it? Yes, he ascertained, with a toss of his windblown, black hair. Remarkably—remarkably unfair, that is to say, if he depressed the expectations of his king and country. It was with these noble thoughts in mind, after all, that he had journeyed north, to the rocky hills of Poska. Or perhaps he was just remarkably good at deluding himself. Whatever the case may be, he was in Poska, and in Poska his business was to be.

Suitably satisfied with himself, the cognizant young man set himself to observing his surroundings. Being James Potter, he obviously did this with a gusto that would have set the military marksmen to shame; _being James Potter_ , he saw everything that it was possible to see within the hemmings-in of the horizon, and, being James Potter, he naturally noted all the details with care. His mouth curled into a tiny smile as he leaned forward, gripping his horse's saddlehorn tightly with a free hand. It was going to be an interesting day, to be certain. He was going to make several people proud.

His horse trotted up the steep, hilly incline. The air smelled distinctly of sawdust—remnants of the mills they'd just passed by, breathing their lungs into the air with all the ease of a cigar-smoking barrister who is off-duty and off-morals. James winced as he remembered the nobles of that land, the under-the-hill land, the locals called it. The disparity between the people there made even the needles in his pocket-watch twinge. He shook his head, firmly, as the images clouded his mind. _Help them, yes,_ he thought, _but later._

Poska was a beautiful land.

It was one of the first things that you would notice, if you were to traverse the Poskan outposts in the country. In fact, it would be a very difficult thing _not_ to notice, James thought drolly, given that there was nothing but country for several miles around, and, henceforth, not much else to notice besides. The land was hilly, with woollen tufts of green roiling out into the distance, interspersed with the occasional cluster of trees. The air smelled sweet—distinctly flavourful, although it was hard to pinpoint exactly what flavour. In the winters, the land was a minefield of ice and hail, but in the summers, it was one of the prettiest destinations on earth. Pity it was uninhabited, James thought, scrunching up his nose.

He tapped his horse on the side with a leather-gloved hand. It was getting hot now, and he felt sticky in places that were discomfiting to be sticky in, but James merely shrugged off his overshirt—he'd disposed of his coat long ago—and laughed. The clouds were thistle struck frozen-solid in the sky's keep, their tongues dangling in white lace over the clear, boiling, beautiful blue. The air was thick, but calm, and clamoured around him in a gypsy-like gait.

'I should've brought the boys, eh, Bientro?' James said to his horse, patting its downy, chestnut mane. His eyes remained firmly attached to the view. 'Nothing but hills for miles and miles. Lupin'd have been thrilled, 'course, that nature maniac—pity the army mutt's positioned down west. And Pete'—James closed his eyes, his mouth twisting into a half-frown of contemplation—'well, Pete likes anything that Sirius likes so that's a safe—ooh.' He blinked, his eyes connecting once more to the view facing him. He dangled his hand in front of his eyes and skewered them shut, then blinked again. This was followed by a rhythmic process of eye-blinking and head-shaking, all whilst Bientro snorted and stamped as though to keep up with his master's pace.

'Good Lord, Bien.' James laughed. 'Good—good Lord.' He leaned forward. 'It's not an oasis,' he said, sounding bemused. 'It's not an oasis—no, not at all, not in a thousand—' He blinked again as the strange sight before him disappeared with a 'pop', then reappeared. His confusion quickly dissipating as he realised what he'd just seen, he grinned widely.

Where there had been nothing but hill and sky, there was a wall. The military outposts were still a way off—five kilometres up north, James bargained, more or less—and there were no towns or cities aside from the ones he had left behind. This was specially allocated land for field experiments, as the rabble went, although the nature of these experiments was termed 'military business' and never went further than that. There weren't supposed to be any walls here. The wall he was supposed to be heading towards was brown and bare and surrounded by military men. It was not supposed to be mossy or overlaid with gemstones.

And it definitely wasn't supposed to be growing a pub on its chin. James watched as the small building sifted in and out of view; a sign rested against a barrel of what he supposed was ale on the front steps. James did not have to squint at the sign in order to read it. His eyesight was far too good for that. He did move closer to it, anyway, out of curiosity.

It was called _The Hob_ and, contrary to what James believed, it was a playhouse, not a pub, jutting from an outcrop of mossy wall as though it had never contemplated the possibility of belonging anywhere else. Bientro skidded slightly on the hill's steep side. James jerked his reins upwards, frowning. Did the military know this was here? He had been assigned to the Poskan outposts for a mission, although he had not as yet been briefed as to what it was...

James smirked. Wouldn't it be just his luck, he thought, if he'd accidentally stumbled onto the problem itself? After all, he had been alive long enough to know that it is always the narrow, cheap-looking buildings in suspicious corners that have the most mystery to them. Perhaps it is because they look skeletal enough not to hide anything that one never suspects them to be shielding the remotely odd and the distinctly bombastic, but James Potter had seen enough skinny blokes in his life to know that size is never a determiner for skill. There was him, for example, and there was the Count of Mal-hoon, (although, James thought, the Count of Mal-hoon was a detestable bastard, and _he_ was not).

It was as such that he deemed the scrap of the playhouse, with its whitewashed walls and rickety-looking front staircase, a sure hideaway for devilish trickery. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose, smiling with grim satisfaction. Yes, it was definitely grinning at him now, this ramshackle, humpbacked, excuse of a building with slits for windows. He'd probably find a drunkard or two in there, perhaps even a bit of terrible music—and it was, of course, a criminal offence to make terrible music, in which case, James told himself, it was wise to investigate.

That, and the fact that the gaunt-looking playhouse had popped out of nowhere, of course, made it all the more worthy of inspection. Grinning widely, like a sailor who has discovered an island made entirely out of frozen liquor, James reached the bottom of the hill and dismounted. He climbed up the steps to _The Hob._ The sound of music drifted from underneath the heavy oak door, but a much louder sound—a deluge of shouting, yelling, and heavy thuds—rose up and swamped the tinny symphony. James couldn't help but smile. _Trouble._ He slipped his hand around his rapier hilt, gestured at Bientro with a finger held to his lips. _Quiet_ , his eyes said. _Trouble_ , his eyes said.

Bientro scoffed and tossed his head. _Stop dawdling, you idiot,_ his eyes said.

James rolled his shoulders. He had raised his hand to knock at the door, cleared his throat twice and readied his best soldier-like pose, and tweaked his crest _just_ a tad to the left, just so everyone could see it better—when the door opened on its own and a man stepped out of the fray. His dark hair swung into his face. There was a cut all the way down his right arm. He had a sword. He was in military uniform. And he was yelling quite loudly at the blond man behind him, who—James craned his neck to see, his eyes widening—was also in military uniform.

'No, Davis, you bloody idiot! I leave you alone for one second and you're— _attacking_ the bloody wizards, or, or what did you say you were, alchemists? From some weird recessive genepool? Aight, anyway, they're not the people we need, and if you behave violently towards them I fecking swear I will slit your throat open with a _feather_ —' The man turned his head around, so violently that it looked as though the cords in his neck would snap. His eyes landed on James. They widened. James' soldier-pose slackened, his mouth falling open.

Behind them, Bientro neighed.

 _'Pads?_ ' James said.

' _Prongs?_ ' Sirius clutched his arm tightly. He looked unsure as to whether he ought to laugh, or smile, or frown, or possibly yell at him. His grey eyes narrowed dangerously; he stepped back, over into the threshold of the inn. Curious gazes—men and women in strange costumes—peered over at them. Davis, the blond man, stepped up behind Sirius, one tentative hand clutching tightly at a pistol. James sputtered, trying to find the words, but it is odd to speak to a person who is covered in blood, odder when they're in a playhouse that wasn't there five minutes ago, and a special, incredibly heightened kind of oddness when they are your best friend you haven't seen in close to six months and assumed was out of the country.

' _Sirius,'_ James began. 'Where have you _be_ —'

A swish. Blade cutting through air. James reacted in a manner that was far too slow for a seasoned military officer. He ducked, throwing his head backwards—but barely in time; the sword nicked him on the cheek.

'Oi!' James' hand flew to his hair. He rubbed at his cheek, wincing as the cut stung. It wasn't deep, and he'd had worse, but it hurt like hell. It was worse, perhaps, seeing as Sirius was the one who had dealt it. James stood up, eyeing his best friend warily. Was it really him? He _had_ called him Prongs, so in all likelihood ... but then again, James thought, his gaze turning dark, anyone could wrestle the information out of anyone these days. Somewhat hesitatingly, he drew his rapier, wishing desperately that he'd thought of bringing a more ... durable weapon for the journey. His eyes skittered over the crowd: frightened men and women— _actors,_ he realised—all dressed in varying amounts of finery that only looks fine on the stage, and younger children who hid behind the upturned chairs and tables scattered throughout the room. A low, long stage had been erected behind them. A woman stood there, clutching a knife, blood smearing her dress. Her face was twisted into a scowl. As James looked at her, she spat on the ground before disappearing behind the curtains, her long, red braids cutting a neat arc behind her. A couple of men—injured, by the looks of it—sat slumped over near the stage.

Nobody moved. Davis' hands shook. James met his eyes. He was scared—no older than sixteen. Young, he thought, to be in the army. But then again... James almost grinned at the thought. He had been younger.

Turning his eyes on Sirius again, James inhaled deeply. Sawdust. Like in the under-the-hill. He could feel the grains beneath his soles.

'Are you going to shoot me?' Out of the corner of his eye, he saw fear flood Davis' face. Sirius hesitated. And James smirked.

He crouched low, his eyes intent on Sirius Black's face. Holding his rapier aloft, he entered a defensive stance, shielding his face. He knew that the kid, Davis, could shoot him with that pistol, but he also knew that Sirius would never kill anyone unless it was on orders—or unless he was riled enough to forget reason. James blew his hair out of his face. His eyes narrowed. _Unless this isn't Sirius,_ he thought. There was silence, both men sizing the other up. What was aggravating was that James felt like he was reading his best friend's every move—the way he moved, the way he held his longsword just slightly off to the right because of a shoulder injury he'd gotten when they were fighting together at the Amballa. Sirius Black's eyes were inflammatory, like dunes of fog dripping with distrust and fear. James saw it, saw it all, and he knew Sirius could read his eyes just as plainly. But if there was one thing the military had taught them, it was that illusions were easy to master. It was that trust was not a copper coin to be tossed into the gutter on a whim. Mind-readers, alchemists—they were people who stood alongside wizards, but not all of them were good. James Potter knew.

He had once been a wizard, after all. The title he had disposed of when his father had died, and had taken up the mantle of a Solvein soldier. That James Potter did not exist. That James Potter was one very few people could claim to have known.

If he was facing a mind-reader, and if they had really taken his friend, James knew he would not live.

But how to be certain...?

'You bleeding bastard,' Sirius-perhaps-not-Sirius spat eventually, 'you're an apparition, aren't you? What the hell did you do with James Potter?'

James jaw twitched. 'I didn't do anything with myself,' he said calmly. 'Tell the kid'—he jerked his head in Davis' direction—'to drop the gun. I'm James Potter.'

Silence. Some of the people began to mutter, others heading towards the windows and climbing out, while even more headed backstage. The woman reappeared. This time, there was a man with her. She pointed in their direction, muttering lowly as he nodded and surveyed them. James focused on breathing. He repeated, 'I'm James Potter.'

'Prove it,' Sirius Black said.

'Why should I?' James eyes flashed, half with anger, half in annoyance. 'You're the one impersonating my friend. _You_ prove it.'

'Bloody hell—fi— _look, if you're James, I_ —' Sirius moved forward. Impulsively, James raised his sword.

'No further. Drop your sword.'

Sirius' lip curled. 'We could still shoot you, you know.'

'Sure,' James said. 'Do that. But if you're going to ask me a question—or if you're going to test me, drop your sword.'

'You drop yours first.'

James stood up. He shoved his sword back into its sheath rather unceremoniously and glared at the men. 'Done. Now get a move on. I have to be at the Poskan wall by sunset.'

Sirius dropped his sword on the ground. It fell there with a clang. In one swift movement, he had James in an armlock, flipping him over so that his face was against the ground. Leaning over him, Sirius whispered furiously into his ear, ' _Why did I join the military, when, and what did I say to you on the night of you-know-what?_ '

'You joined,' James wheezed, 'a week after I did. June 1844. Because you saw what they did to your brother. You saw and you knew the only way out was this. And the night...' He breathed more easily as Sirius relaxed his choker-like grip on him. 'The night ... _that_ happened, you told me that the day you killed out of fancy was the day I ought to push you off a cliff. And you said'—James hissed—'you said to never let you rest until you'd avenged Regulus.'

Sirius remained still. Then he grunted, 'Ask me.'

'Wh—what?'

'You answered my question. You deserve to know if I'm me or not.'

'I don't—' Relief flooded through James entire body. He felt himself relax. 'I don't have to, just get off of—' He was cut abruptly short as someone across the room let out a shrill scream. Davis fired the pistol. James wrenched himself out of Sirius's grip, scuttling out from underneath him. He raised his head; there was dust on his glasses. 'Wha—' he said, looking around, but his nerves were on fire. There was no clarity—just a diffusion of senses, sight and sound colliding into one another in one unbelievable cacophony. It grated against his skin, made his insides feel like they were writhing and turning into snakes. He couldn't hear. He couldn't see. All he could smell ... he raised his head blindly ... was sawdust. Thick, coating everything: his lips, his teeth, even the whites of his eyes. He screamed. He whipped around, blinking the dust out of his eyes. In the haze, he could see Sirius, still sitting on the floor where he had left him.

The strangeness lasted for half a minute more. Then it stopped. James coughed and rubbed at his tongue with a gloved hand, retching all the while. The screaming had been replaced with the tinny music once again. It was bright—very bright. He squinted, covering his face with his hands. Sweat dripped off of his forehead onto his palm. He wiped at his face with it.

By the time he had composed himself and stood up, he realised what he had missed.

He was standing outside, on a tuft of grass. Stretching all around him was the Poskan countryside. Davis was nowhere to be seen—nor was _The Hob_ or any of its inhabitants. Where had all of those who had climbed out of the windows gone? And where was...? James whipped around as someone behind him began to choke. He nearly whooped, but stopped himself just in time when he realised...

Sirius Black lay on the ground, choking for air. His shirt was slashed over in a neat 'X'. And a scarlet liquid oozed from the cuts, quickly seeping into the cloth from his skin. James stumbled towards him, mouth gaping.

'Lungs ... fire,' Sirius gasped. His eyes were circles rimmed with the kind of asphyxiating madness only pain conjures. He gritted his teeth. 'Not that ... deep.'

'Horse,' James said, panic quickly settling into his bones. His heart was rattling in his chest, reminding him uncomfortably of the tinny music inside the playhouse. 'Horse—horse— _Bientro._ ' He lugged his friend up, grunting as Sirius' heavier build weighed down on his slighter frame. He managed to pull Sirius up behind him, his head lolling against Bientro's flanks. ' _Ride,_ Bien!' James called desperately. 'You wanker, _ride._ '

Somewhere five kilometres north, an alarm sounded for an infiltration. And somewhere a hundred kilometres further north, a girl called Lily Evans ran through the rat-infested streets of a town called Liiren, a knife clutched tightly in one hand.

* * *

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing but the land of Solvein, the Poskan outposts, and James' rapier.**


End file.
